


The Promises Of Yesterday, The Pledges Of Tomorrow

by ShippersList



Series: Steter shorts [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Character Study, Child Neglect, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Good Peter Hale, Guide Stiles Stilinski, Hurt Peter Hale, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Regret, Sentinel Peter Hale, Sentinel/Guide, Sheriff Stilinski's A+ Parenting, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stream of Consciousness, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-04-24 17:03:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19177633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/pseuds/ShippersList
Summary: Stiles is a kid with serious concentration issues and definitely not a guide—let alone a guide strong enough to calm down a feral Sentinel wolf. It’s just not possible.





	1. The Sheriff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiscontentedWinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/gifts), [Chronicallyfragile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chronicallyfragile/gifts), [Green](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Green/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Promise You'll Look After Him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3246344) by [DiscontentedWinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/pseuds/DiscontentedWinter). 



> Disco, you are an awesome enabler.  
> For Chronicallyfragile and Green who both have had a some rough times and deserve cheering up. I hope this helps a bit.
> 
> Edit 9/2019: Yes, this used to be a one-shot but... things happened. Sorry, not sorry.

 

Let’s face it, most things in your life are well: you have a nice home, the favorite sports teams you root for, a handful of good friends, and a job you know you’re good at. People respect you and your office even if you are a Partial because your competence covers the so-called shortcomings (as the purists put it) and the whole town knows it.

Beacon Hills is relatively busy for a place that small and it keeps your hands full. The supernatural community makes the most of it, though, what with the Nemeton drawing in powered individuals. But you know how to deal with werewolves, vampires, pixies, wraiths, nymphs, and even the occasional ogre. You even enjoy it because usually, supernaturals are easy. It’s the influence of the Beacon Hills Tower and Sentinel Center that makes things trickier. Even so, you know how to wrangle partial and full sentinels and know your way around Guides.

All that competence, and it doesn’t help a bit to feel less helpless and frustrated about your son.

 

* * *

 

Stiles was a firecracker from the moment he started moving around inside his mother and things only got more hectic when he was born. Continuously wailing like a banshee, almost constantly on the move. He didn’t want to settle on your lap and was unhappy on Claudia’s arms, and he absolutely refused to be held. It ate you up but it hurt Claudia even more. She had hoped for a child she could cradle and hold close, a warm bundle of joy who would smile at her with spittle-covered cheeks and giggle at her cooing. Stiles wasn’t like that.

He still isn’t.

 

* * *

 

”Sheriff,” Deputy Parrish stage whispers from the door, interrupting your meeting with the Tower representatives about the new guidelines for Guides and their close ones. You barely managed to hold in a groan when you heard the name for the first time.

”A phone call. It’s—” he shoots a glance at the representatives who turn their heads, pretending they can’t read his emotions like an open book. ”It’s the Center.”

Deputy Parrish is young and bright, but they all are when they start, aren’t they? And they keep getting younger year by year. He’s partial like you, but where you have Sight and Sound, he has Smell. He’s a smart kid and you work well together.

(Sometimes you catch yourself wishing Stiles was more like him. And then you almost drown in your own guilt because a father shouldn’t think such things about their own kids, right? Right.)

”Excuse me for a moment,” you say, nod at the representatives, and step out.

Parrish is nervous and his elevated heartbeat thumps in your ears like a drum. ”They lost a Feral,” he blurts out as soon as you close the door behind you. ”A wolf. He escaped somewhere around ten and they think he’s hiding in the Preserve.”

You curse under your breath. To your knowledge, there’s only one Feral wolf in Beacon Hills and if it’s him…

”Hale.”

Parrish swallows, the sound a dry click in your ears. ”Yeah.”

”Aww, shit,” you mutter and rub a hand over your face. The situation just went from precarious to shit storm and it’s only going to get worse. ”Get Clarke and Strauss. Wait for me in my office, I’ll come up when I’m done here.”

”Yes, Sir,” Parrish says.

”Right,” you sigh and take a deep breath before stepping back in. The representatives’ eyes snap into you as soon as you open the door and you know they already know.

”Ladies, gentleman; we have a situation.”

 

* * *

 

You tested Stiles for Guide abilities as soon as possible, hoping they’d reveal some way to deal with the…mildly put, _active_ child you had in your hands. The tests came back negative.

You learned to cope. You learned how to follow seven different tangents on anything and everything a three-year-old could imagine, and some things a child his age shouldn’t really be figuring out. You learned to read his body language, his small ticks and tells, and managed to intercept an explosive temper tantrum at least two times out of three. Well, almost. Maybe.

Anyway, things were getting better.

And then Claudia got sick.

 

* * *

 

”A full sentinel and a wolf?” Parrish’s voice rises to a squeak. ”And he’s feral? How is he still alive?”

Sometimes it’s hard to remember not everyone remembers things from over fifteen years ago like it was yesterday.

”Guilt,” you grunt and sit heavily on your chair. ”Simple as that. The Hales were a prominent founding family and their Pack had both born wolves and humans. They were of the old blood, respected, pillars of the community and all that. Some people had their own views of things and, well, long story short, they ended up burning down the Hale home.” You down your coffee, lukewarm and bitter, and let out a deep sigh. ”It was a hate crime, no questions asked. The perpetrators even confessed with glee, the sick bastards. They burned the family alive. Peter Hale is the only one left, only because at the time he was jumping from bed to bed and more out of the house than in it.” You look Parrish in the eye. ”He almost burned himself alive, trying to get into the house and save his family. He’s been pretty much feral since.”

”Jesus,” Parrish breathes out.

”I have no idea why he ran now. He’s been mostly unresponsive but he hasn’t tried to escape before. Shit.”

”It’s full moon,” Clarke says without taking her eyes off the Hale Fire file she’s scanning.

You shake your head. ”Peter Hale had iron control over his wolf. He’s never lost control before.”

”It’s the first time for everything,” Clarke says. ”Sir.”

”I guess,” you say as you rub your temples. The debriefing from the Center was short and efficient: They would have their best and brightest tracking Hale down, the BHPD would most likely act just as a silent backup. You won’t probably be needed at all but you need to be there anyway. Show of good faith and so on and so forth. Which reminds you, ”I need to call Stiles.”

”Yes, sir,” Parrish says and closes the door on his way out.

You pick up the phone, take a deep breath, and tap Stiles in your contacts. The phone bleats out the dial tone and you drum your fingers on the table, anxious to be on your way.

Stiles doesn’t pick up.

You glance at the calendar and realize the date.

”God _damn.”_

It’s Stiles’s 16th birthday. You promised to be home early.

It’s not the first promise you’ve broken over the years.

 

* * *

 

After Claudia died, you feel like the bottom of your life had crumbled away, leaving you on shaky, uneven ground with a kid you don’t know how to handle. Not anymore. You tried to cope, tried to keep on going, but you ended up drowning your sorrows and failures into cheap whiskey and long hours at work. You and Stiles fought and you both cried and you promised Stiles to try harder but you both recognized the hollow sound of empty promises in an empty house.

Stiles…got better and worse. He learned to cook and clean, he learned to wipe out the remains of your sick and how to coax you to bed when you barely could walk after you claimed you had only had one drink. And he learned to hide away his feelings and compensated with being too loud, too all over the place, just…too _much_.

And you hated it. God, you hated it how he demanded loudly your attention and reminded you how his mother would’ve understood him even though she hadn’t, not really.

You hated him because, sometimes, with his head held high and his big, luminous eyes staring at you with a challenge, he looked so much like her.

 

* * *

 

You swing by your house on your way to the Center. It’s dark and empty and the back door ajar and swinging gently. Stiles isn’t in and, when you stretch your senses, you can’t hear him nearby either. Parrish shakes his head, telling you he can’t pick up Stiles’s scent.

It’s not the first time Stiles has taken off, and it’s not even the first time when he’s taken off after you broke your promise of being home early. But this time, he chose a hell of a time for his disappearing act.

”Let’s go,” you say gruffly, take one last look around the perimeter. ”I have no idea where he is and, frankly, there’s no point staying here and waiting. He could come home in an hour or tomorrow.”

Parrish shoots you a glance from the corner of his eye. ”Is there someone you should tell about him? You know, so that they could keep an eye out?” He asks carefully.

”With Stiles, just one eye isn’t going to be enough but yeah, you’re right. I’ll give Melissa a call.”

You leave a message on Melissa McCall’s phone with full knowledge it’s a hit or a miss—she’s more than likely to be working and doesn’t always keep her personal phone with her, but you guess it’s better than nothing.

The Center is bustling when you arrive. Dr. Deaton is coordinating the retrieval mission and you realize that in this case, you like his placid tones and calm demeanor. He acknowledges you with a cool look and a nod.

”What do you need from us, Doc?” You ask. ”I have no full sentinels present but several with Scent.”

Dr. Deaton’s lips twitch. ”Thank you for offering, Sheriff, but we’ll take care of the tracking. Your job is to follow us at a safe distance and, if all else fails, shoot him full of heavy-duty sedatives to stop him. Ms. Morrell is dealing out tranquilizer darts meant for werewolves, if you could please instruct your men to use them.” He gives you a stern look. ”Do not use regular bullets or silver bullets. Peter Hale is already feral, we don’t want to push him even further to a place of no return.”

You don’t ask if Hale has been in a place of any return in years but the slightly disappointed look in Dr. Deaton’s eyes tells you he already guessed.

As the Center crew moves out, you stay behind with your deputies, relaying Dr. Deaton’s instructions and making sure everyone has the tranq darts loaded in. You keep silver bullets in your sidearm just to be on the safe side. Or maybe it’s just spite.

The preserve is oddly quiet around you, like the forest is holding its breath. The Center’s crew is silent on its collective feet even to your enhanced senses, but Parrish lifts his nose up just enough to let you all know he’s still tracking them. You concentrate on your Senses and sink into a haze—not quite a zone but close to it—and let yourself be immersed in the forest.

It goes on for a minute or two hours and then you hear it.

”Here! They’re here!”

_They?_

 

* * *

 

It got slightly better when Stiles went to high school and finally had some friends. Or, _a_ friend but one was better than none, right? Sure, he still harbored his somewhat unhealthy obsession to the Martin girl—a full sentinel at fourteen and full of it—but he also had a real, genuine friend to spend time with. The McCall boy wasn’t too bright but he was a good kid, honest and generally well-behaved, and his steady low-level empathy helped to ground Stiles.

Too bad he abandoned Stiles when he met the Argent girl and managed to bond with her. Everyone knows how the sentinel/guide bonding works but it still shook Stiles how easily he was brushed aside. He tried to cover it but you knew. You Saw the redness in his eyes and Heard the furious muttering at night when his anxiety took hold and he couldn’t sleep.

You went to his bedside then, rubbed his back with warm, steady hands, and tried to will him to calm down.

Sometimes, it helped.

 

* * *

 

The whispers travel throughout the ranks like wildfire and you Hear them before one of the Center’s Guides hurries to your side. Her eyes are wide and nervous but she comes straight to you with her head held high and his back straight. You appreciate that.

”Sir, you should come with me.”

You shake your head. ”Why?”

She lets out an impatient huff of breath. ”It’s your son. He…” she pauses and presses her lips into a tight line. ”I don’t know for sure because I wasn’t there, but apparently he…bonded with Sentinel Hale.”

You blink several times and let out a confused bark of laughter. ”That’s impossible. Stiles isn’t a Guide.”

”Like I said, I wasn’t there,” she repeats. ”You should come with me.”

You glance at Parrish who jerks his head in the universal _just get going_ move.

The Center people part in front of you like the Red Sea when you approach a small clearing. In the far end, you See a man sitting on the ground and a lithe body in his lap, head buried into the crook of the man’s neck. Even without seeing the face, you know it’s Stiles.

You take an involuntary step forward only to flinch in surprise when Dr. Deaton stops you with a hand on your chest.

”Don’t,” he warns in that infuriatingly calm voice of his. ”Don’t interrupt them.”

”What the hell is he doing to my son,” you whisper through your teeth.

Dr. Deaton doesn’t bother looking at you. ”Not _to_ but _with._ They’re bonding.”

”Don’t be ridiculous. Stiles isn’t a Guide. He was tested as a kid and everything came back negative.”

”On the contrary,” Dr. Deaton says, never taking his eyes off the pair. ”Stiles is an exceptionally strong Guide. In fact, I believe he is off all the charts which is why he tested negative.”

”But…he’s just a kid! And Hale is old enough to be his father!”

Dr. Deaton cocks his head. ”In these matters, age is just a number. He is sixteen, right?”

You groan and wipe a hand over your face. ”Yeah. Barely. It’s his birthday.”

Dr. Deaton nods. ”Like I said, he’s sixteen. Peter Hale is thirty-four. It’s not the biggest age gap I know of.”

_Thirty-four,_ you think. _That’s eighteen years._

 

* * *

 

Even if the genetics could be tested at an early age, kids usually manifested having either enhanced senses or empathy when they hit puberty. You waited and hoped and saw absolutely nothing. Nothing in Stiles changed unless the increased laundry counted (and in this case, it didn’t). He still fixated on things, were they a puppy he absolutely wanted (you said no), his sudden interest in playing melodica (you _definitely_ said no), or fixing Claudia’s old jeep for his 16th birthday (you said maybe). His moods still were all over the place, he still went on a dozen tangents at a time, and he still couldn’t concentrate to save his life. You wondered if it would ever get easier.

So, when Stiles became slightly subdued a couple of weeks before his 16th birthday, it was heaven. You were relieved and then felt immensely guilty because it was most likely due to your letting him down on the jeep. You promised you’d take a look on it together later and refused to worry about the lackluster response. In your defense, you really had meant to take the weekend off and tinker with the car with Stiles, but then the escape happened and…

Well.

There you were.

 

* * *

 

When it becomes clear that the feral Sentinel is found and in no immediate danger to himself or others, the crowds disperse. You refuse to leave but tell Parrish to return the tranq darts to Ms. Morrell and then lead everyone out. Dr. Deaton stays and you see him talking quietly with Ms. Morrell but you don’t bother trying to listen in. You hone your senses on the pair on the other side of the clearing instead.

At first, you think they haven’t moved at all but when you hone in your Sight, you realize Hale is looking back.

His eyes are red.

You rein in your instinctive flinch and look him steadily in the eye for a moment and then give him a measured nod. He keeps his eyes on you for a little while longer, then slowly closes his eyes.

You let out a breath. Well, that went reasonably well, all things considered.

You walk to Dr. Deaton and Ms. Morrell. ”So, he’s also an alpha,” you say conversationally.

Dr. Deaton manages to look slightly embarrassed. ”Ah, yes. He’s the last of the Hales—or at least the last we know of.” He gives you a knowing look. ”You acknowledged him then?”

You shrug. ”Didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”

”No, you didn’t,” Ms. Morrell says. ”They’re both calm now. Peter seems…almost lucid.” She cocks her head and purses her lips. ”I wonder…”

When she doesn’t continue, you clear your throat. ”You wonder what?”

She gives you a glance that says you’re annoying but she tolerates you for the time being. ”I wonder if Stiles is both his anchor _and_ Guide.”

”That would explain a lot,” Dr. Deaton murmurs.

”How so?” You ask gruffly. It’s your son they’re talking about, damnit.

Ms. Morrell shakes her head. ”That’s a discussion for another time, Sheriff. Now, we need to get them out of the woods.”

She raises a brow at Dr. Deaton who nods, and then she starts walking towards the pair, her hands splayed to her sides, open. She walks halfway into the clearing, then stops. ”Sentinel Hale, may I approach?” She asks in a clear, gentle voice.

Hale’s head snaps up and the red in his eyes makes your breath catch in your throat. You can Hear the low rumble emanating from him, a warning to stay away. Your hand itches for your gun but before you have the chance to do anything, Stiles raises his head, takes hold of Hale’s face with his both hands, and turns his head to face him. Just like that.

”Stop it,” you hear Stiles say like he’s scolding a child. ”It’s just Ms. Morrell. She’s not going to hurt you. I won’t let her.”

The growling stops and the red fades away from Hale’s eyes, only to be replaced by the most intense adoration you’ve ever seen. You avert your eyes and tune away from the Sight, slightly embarrassed and more than a little bit lost.

How is it possible that Stiles, your ADHD kid, has so much power over an alpha wolf who has been feral for well over a decade?

How hadn’t you known?

 

* * *

 

One day, when Claudia was having a clear moment in the haze of her last days, she gripped your wrist with enough force for you to wince.

”Promise me you’ll look after him, John,” she said, her eyes bright and piercing. ”Promise me.”

You promised because what else could you say?

 

* * *

 

Hale refuses to let go of Stiles who refuses to be carried around like a kid, and for a moment they stay locked in an internal battle none of you understand anything about. Then, finally, Hale sighs and lets go of Stiles only to push him behind his considerable bulk. You make the mistake of taking a half-aborted step forward and are immediately rewarded with glowing red eyes and a growl.

”No!” Stiles snaps, darts around Hale, and faces him with his head held high. ”You do _not_ growl at people, Peter! Especially at my dad. _Never_ at my dad.” He emphasizes his words with poking Hale in the chest with his forefinger and the man is so surprised he actually staggers back a bit, blinks, and cocks his head in confusion.

Stiles sighs. ”Dad? Come here.”

”Are you sure?” You ask.

He gives you an exasperated look over his shoulder. ”Yeah, I’m sure. Just come here. I need to introduce you two.”

You take a couple of cautious steps forward, fully in the knowledge that you’re walking toward an alpha Sentinel who has just found his Guide. For a reason you can’t wrap your mind around, your kid has a grip on said wolf and you trust him. You have no idea how.

”Peter, this is my dad,” Stiles says. ”He was the most important thing in my life until you came along. And dad, this is Peter, my Sentinel.”

You and Hale eye each other up. You see a man who is rough around the edges, the feral animal rippling just under his skin, but who looks at your son with such tenderness it makes you uncomfortable.

You wonder what he sees in you.

”It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Hale says haltingly, his voice the kind of gravelly that tells you he hasn’t used it in a while. At least not to speak, that is.

”Great!” Stiles says brightly. ”Now, can we go home? I’m hungry.”

The journey back from the preserve takes time. First, you have to talk Hale down from hunting Stiles a deer or…something, then you have to figure out how to manage Hale’s overprotective nature. In the end, you settle with you leading the way with Ms. Morrell, then Hale and Stiles hand in hand, and three Center Guides behind them. You don’t like turning your back on an apex predator but you really have no choice.

Dr. Deaton stays behind to cleanse the clearing or…to do something you really don’t bother to think about. He said it has something to do with the Nemeton which is enough for you.

”There’s one thing we have to decide,” Ms. Morrell says delicately. ”Peter won’t return to Center, not with Stiles. And I agree that it’s not the best place for either of them.”

You already know where this is going. ”You want them to come home with me.”

”If it isn’t too much trouble,” Ms. Morrell murmurs.

You shake your head and bite back a snort. Having a newly bonded Sentinel/Guide couple under your roof? ”I can’t see how it could be,” you deadpan.

She gives you a sideways look that tells she knows exactly what you’re thinking. ”Excellent. I’ll let my brother know it’s all sorted out.”

”Your brother?”

She gives you a wide-eyed look of faux innocence. ”Dr. Deaton is my brother and my Sentinel. Didn’t you know?”

You open your mouth and then close it with a snap. You really, really don’t want to ask.

 

* * *

 

”What if no one wants me?” Stiles asked one day, shortly after the McCall kid had decided he preferred his newfound Sentinel for his friend.

”Huh?” You asked, frowned, and gave him a look over the rim of your glasses.

Stiles bit his lip and rolled the hem of his shirt in his fingers. Even when he was subdued and quiet, he was constantly moving, little tics and twitches that you have learned to ignore almost completely by now.

”I know I’m…difficult,” he said, his lips twisting around the word like it tasted bad in his mouth. ”What if— what if I’m too much? For everyone?” He raised his head and looked you straight in the eye, his wide eyes holding more pain than any fifteen-year-old should.

You swallowed around a suddenly tight throat. ”You won’t be,” you said with more conviction than you actually felt. ”You won’t be, I promise you.”

 

* * *

 

You definitely don’t want to sleep in your own room just a couple of feet away from Stiles’s so you camp on the couch with earplugs. It doesn’t matter that Stiles is of consenting age in the eyes of the Tower, it’s still your teenage son upstairs with a man over twice his age, doing…things you don’t want to think about.

You sigh and go rummage the garage for the big over-ear earmuffs just to be safe.

The next morning, you’re loading the coffee maker when Hale walks in. His hair is matted on the left side of his head and sticking up on the right, which means he slept so that he could keep an eye on the door. He’s wearing your old pajamas which is weird but way better than being in the nude. And werewolf healing or not, you are fervently grateful for the shirt because you really don’t want to know if your son managed to leave marks on his skin.

”Morning,” you say gruffly as you start the coffee because, despite everything, you still have manners.

Hale grunts something under his breath as an answer but his eyes are clear and without a trace of red. You give him a narrow look and he bears your scrutiny with his head held high. The raw feral edge of last night is gone, replaced by something slightly…not softer, but tempered and focused and, therefore, infinitely more dangerous. The wolf is still present but it’s content to rest until it’s needed again.

”I know I have no say in how Sentinel and his Guide navigate their relationship but he’s still my son,” you say bluntly. ”My sixteen-years-old son. And I care about him.”

Something in Hale’s eyes change and you almost take a step back to get some distance in between you and the simmering rage hiding in them.

”I won’t say I’d die for him because I won’t,” Hale says in a low voice. ”I just found him and I’m way too selfish to let him go. But I swear to you that I will _burn_ the world to keep him safe and happy.”

You let out a noncommittal noise and pour yourself a cup. ”Stiles claims he likes his coffee black and bitter but he actually loves it with three sugars and a splash of milk. I’m gonna drink my coffee in the back yard.”

You’re almost out of the door when Hale clears his throat and says, ”Thank you, sir.”

You pause. ”My name is John,” you say over your shoulder. ”Leave me some bacon. No matter what Stiles says, I’m going to eat bacon today.”

A short moment later, Hale brings you a plate heaped with bacon and eggs. They’re delicious and you don’t feel even the slightest bit guilty.

 

* * *

 

”Promise me you’ll look after him,” Claudia had asked.

You’re fervently glad you no longer have to do it alone.


	2. The Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, the shifting tenses were done on purpose.

From the moment you open your eyes till the moment they make you go back to bed and force you under with medication, all you can feel is fire. It’s around you, inside of you, burning through you until nothing else remains but ashes and charred bitterness, and the next day, it stars all over again. It’s all there is, all there’s ever been, or so it seems.

And yet, sometimes, you feel like there’s something _else_ out there.

You just don’t know what.

 

* * *

 

There are times when you remember things. A big house with wide windows and a patio, filled with life and laughter.

A woman with sharp eyes, a cunning smile, and flowing brown hair.

Her eyes are red, sometimes. And it makes you covet.

 

* * *

 

You wish they would leave you alone. You want to burn in peace, to burn and burn and roar and trash because everything hurts and you feel so completely alone. There’s a hole inside of you, a void the flames can’t touch but you don’t understand why. At times, it’s calling out to you but you don’t know how to answer because it doesn’t make any sense.

The void is tempting and terrifying because it feels like hope and men like you are beyond hope.

 

* * *

 

Dreams are treacherous. They seem like an escape, someplace safe to hide in, but they have the tendency to turn into nightmares.

The good kinds are the ones where the house is lit with candles and lanterns and filled with friends and family. The ones where it’s safe to zone into that one, perfect steak and fill your senses with the scent and taste until you feel like you’re bursting with it, only to be gently yanked back by some of your nieces or nephews. The ones where your sister and Alpha rolls her eyes when you flippantly inform her that you’ll be spending the night with Jeannette or Mary or the Buchard twin brothers. The ones where you know you have a home to return to.

And when you’re deep inside Sarah or Perry or Michael, your wolf sated and content, you feel the pack bonds go taut with terror and _snap_ and you know everything is over but you still try to stop it, dear God you try, but you’ll always end up fighting to get through the mountain ash barrier and you howl and howl as you feel your body catch fire and there’s _nothing_ you can do but watch your whole world burn down in front of you.

Waking up still feels like burning, everything is burning, and your soul scorches from the knowledge that they’re all gone, they’re all dead, and it’s just you, burning, burning, _burning._

 

* * *

 

Full sentinel was supposed to be something special, and even more special when it’s a full sentinel wolf. You never thought that because the Hale lineage is old and almost all were either full sentinels or four-time partials. No, you wanted to be a full sentinel and an _alpha_.

But when the alpha power flowed into you, you fought back. Because even though you wanted it, you didn’t want it like this. Not with your sister’s desperate roars still in your ears and the Scent of your burning family filling your lungs. But you were—are—the last of the Hale lineage and the land latched on you with frightening desperation, demanding you to be the one to preserve and protect. And you snarled and fought and tore through your own skin because not like this, not when there’s no-one else left.

The land didn’t care. You are the prodigy, the last one left, and the power wants to stay alive more than you want to die.

 

* * *

 

The first times you feel the calm, you almost start to cry because you’re finally, _finally,_ going to die. But you won’t. The calm slides over you like a silken scarf, wraps itself around you and whispers sweet nothings into your ears and for a moment, you’re not burning. Then it’s gone like a wisp of smoke and the fire is back, fiercer than ever.

The calm returns every now and then and you yearn and fear it in equal measure because it reminds you of how things used to be, before the fire, before your whole pack was gone, but what if it’s just a dream that’s only a nightmare waiting to happen? What if it’s a special sort of Hell meant just for you, a failed wolf and a failed second of a pack?

What if it’s there just to remind you of things you’re never going to have?

And then it happens: the calm doesn’t return and you wish you never felt it because this is so, so much worse.

 

* * *

 

Raising a family was never a thing you thought about. It was always something your sister did and, frankly, starting a family isn’t the first thing in the mind of any guy entering his twenties. No, you were happy to screw around, more than proud of your reputation as the sentinel wolf who never let their partner go wanting. You loved it, zoning in on your bedmate, finding out exactly what made them squirm and pant and come until they were senseless with pleasure. Your sister didn’t understand it but she was the pack alpha and… well, she never had your adventurous side. She was way too sensible for things like that.

You wonder if you ever stop wishing you stayed home that fateful night. Soaring high on endorphins wasn’t worth the pain that followed.

 

* * *

 

The calm is back and it’s urgent, more persistent. It has a direction now and it tugs at you, pleads you to follow with whispered promises of rest and peace. You’re helpless in its hold and you get up, shift, and _run_ because now you know, now you can _feel_ it. It’s right there, in the middle of the old Hale lands and the fire within you that is the alpha spark roars to life, lighting your eyes with the red you so coveted when you still were alive.

Because this? This must be what the afterlife feels like. This sense of purpose and direction, this sense of the land bowing to him, this undeniable _need_ to go on and answer the pull in your chest.

But it’s not.

You arrive at a clearing that’s foreign and familiar and it’s not the afterlife, it’s not the sweet release of death finally coming to claim you. Instead, it’s a young man—a boy, really—standing alone like he’s waiting for someone. The pull in your chest is almost unbearable now and you corral into him, shifting mid-leap.

The fire within you crashes against him and—

It’s gone.

For the first time in ages, you’re not burning.

You drop on your knees, bury your face in your hands, and weep.

 

* * *

 

Talia used to talk a lot about anchors, mates, and destiny. You used to scoff at her because you thought it was more about her pompous pro-werewolf speeches than reality but perhaps something stuck, wormed its way under your skin, and grew roots. You determinedly ignored its presence and said that the pack was your anchor and you had more than enough willing mates, thank you very much, and what was destiny anyway? Sure, a guide would balance you even more but you always had an iron grip on both your wolf and your senses, you didn’t need a guide. Also, having sex with just one person for the rest of your life sounded boring.

Talia shook her head, gave you this annoying _look_ like she knew something you didn’t, and told you you’d understand when it happened.

You said you’d rather stab yourself in the eye with a spork.

 

* * *

 

You wish you had the chance to tell her she was right.

 

* * *

 

”I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” the boy whispers over and over. ”I should’ve come to you earlier but I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t notice when he crawled on your lap but now that he’s there, you’re holding on to your dear life. He’s all bones and sharp edges and _calm_ , blessed calm, and dear God, how didn’t you realize it?

”Guide,” you say, quiet and gravelly.

He raises his head from your shoulder and looks at you with his huge, luminous eyes. ”Yeah,” he answers. ”But you can also call me Stiles.”

”Stiles,” you say. The name tastes curious on your tongue, like quick wit and buzzing thoughts, and you like it. ”I’m Peter.”

Stiles smiles and it’s like a thousand suns after a storm. His happiness is tangible like it oozes out of him and seeps into your skin, wrapping you both in a cocoon you never want to leave.

”I know,” he says. He wipes your cheeks with his thumbs and the touch is like salve on your skin. ”Sentinel,” he whispers and presses his forehead against yours.

The world stops. It’s just you and him, Sentinel and Guide.

You can finally breathe but you feel like you don’t have to.

You have Stiles.


	3. The Boy

You know when someone says, ”I’m just on fire tonight!” and they’re not actually on fire?

Yeah. Sometimes all you want to do is to shake them and tell them to shut up because they know nothing. They use this nifty saying to tell everyone how well they’re doing but they have no idea how it feels to actually be on fire.

But you do.

Ever since you can remember, you’ve been on fire.

No, scratch that. It’s not you who is on fire but it doesn’t matter because you still feel it all; the way it burns through your skin and bones and turns your lungs into ash, day and night.

And that’s how you’ve grown up.

In flames.

 

* * *

 

Growing up with an alcoholic dad was not great but it wasn’t as awful as people made it sound. Or perhaps it’s just your emotional dependence talking, who the hell knows. Anyway, you learned to clean up your dad’s messes from an early age, learned to hide the bottles and pour out booze, learned to polish his shoes and lay out his uniform, learned to cook and do the laundry. It wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t even good, and it definitely wasn’t healthy but you managed. You both managed.

Your dad pretended he didn’t see your red eyes and you pretended you didn’t feel his self-loathing. It was easy, pretending not to feel things from other people because the fire was there.

The fire was always there.

Sometimes you wondered if things would’ve been easier or harder if the fire went out.

 

* * *

 

There’s really no point in getting all excited about your upcoming 16th birthday. Your dad is going to forget about it anyway but it’s okay. Kinda. He already promised you’d get your mom’s old Jeep and that itself is good enough. Will be good enough.

It’s hard to keep track of your thoughts because something is different and you need to find out what. It’s right there, barely out of your grasp but you close your eyes and reach out, further and further because you _need_ to and—

”Holy shit,” you breathe out. ”Holy fucking shit. I’m a fucking idiot. Way to go, Stiles, you moron.”

You dive into research and everything you find piles on top of the gut-wrenching feeling of _missing important things,_ but you know better now.

You know what you have to do.

 

* * *

 

Back when your mom was still alive, you were sometimes able to shut the fire off. Not often and not for a long period of time at one go, but it was a welcome relief from the constant licking of invisible flames. It was like your mom somehow made things calmer for you and the calm flowed from you into the flames and soothed them.

Later, you learned that it couldn’t have been possible. Your mom wasn’t a guide and all the tests said you definitely weren’t one, weren’t actually even the slightest bit sensitive, so that was that. But for a moment, it had been nice to pretend you were special because you had a gift, not because you were just weird.

Maybe that would’ve made your dad like you more after mom was gone.

 

* * *

 

The moon is full and the air smells sweet and all that poetic shit you really don’t give a fuck about. You close your eyes and concentrate harder than ever in your life and it’s like you can reach further now and zone in on the burning pyre that’s been living right under your skin for your whole life. It’s different, almost like it’s alive somehow, and your face scrunches as you let out a soft moan at the pure _agony_ the flames let out.

”Come on,” you whisper. ”Come on. Come out, please, just…let go and come out, I’m right here.”

The flames flicker, hesitant, and you do the only thing you can think of. In your mind, you open your arms and _reach_.

 

* * *

 

It hardly took a genius to realize your classmates hated you. It was understandable in a way—your constant tics and twitching were distracting, not to mention your inability to keep quiet about things you were interested in. You wished you could just tell them that the only way to keep the flames down was to keep moving, keep talking, keep your mind occupied with a million times at once because then the flames would get confused and recede to burn in low embers instead of roaring fire that consumed you inside out.

Yeah, no. That way lie madness and psych evals and you’d rather not. You grinned like nothing bothered you and pretended the jabs and punches never hurt you because the fire burned them out before they ever touched your skin.

Scott on the other hand…

You really thought he was different; a slightly nerdy kid with a single mom, bright eyes, and an uneven jaw. He was a low-level guide somehow made everything easier and, for a moment, you felt _normal_. Playing video games with him was easy, eating curly fries was easy, laughing out loud until you almost puked was easy. It was such a novelty to have a friend who liked you and wanted to hang out with you. It didn’t matter you both were kind of social outcasts and looked down on because you were together.

You did everything together.

Until you didn’t.

After, the flames came back with a renewed intensity and you wanted to either curl up on the floor and howl or claw out your skin but you couldn’t. It wasn’t yours, it never had been but it sure as fuck felt like it.

After, you saw your dad’s clumsy attempts to comfort you and you pretended it helped because it made him feel better.

After, you hated the flames with a burning (ha) passion.

After, you briefly entertained the idea of just…ending it all but you couldn’t do it. Not because you valued yourself but because you couldn’t leave your dad completely alone. Not like that.

 

* * *

 

You hardly notice your surroundings because your world is a bowl of mist with one, brightly burning point of focus. The world around you doesn’t matter, it’s just a decoration because the real reason this is happening—why everything has ever happened—is that bright point slowly growing larger and larger until your whole vision is aflame. When it crashes into you, you almost expect it to hurt but instead, it feels like coming home. It’s been living right next to you, under your skin for so long that it just…is.

You let out a long breath and smile, and wrap the burning agony around itself like it’s a mess of beautiful yarn instead of years and years of nightmares and trauma dipped in flames. Slowly, gently, you untangle it all and drop the glowing ball into your pocket for safekeeping.

Then you look down and see Peter Hale kneeling in front of you. He’s not on fire anymore but it lingers around him, licking his calves and dancing on his shoulders and you brush it off because nothing will ever hurt him again.

You are his guide and you’ll keep him safe.

The flames yield and vanish and, with it, your skin burns no more.

 

* * *

 

Your dad never bothered to talk to you about the birds and bees. Perhaps it was because he himself was uncomfortable with the topic—perhaps he’d counted on your mom taking care of all the talks. It didn’t matter much, though, because the internet existed and you learned more than enough from YouPorn. At some point, you found leaflets and a box of condoms on your bed and that was that.

Sometimes you wanted to shake your dad and yell at him to listen to you or to talk to you because you were just a kid and everything was scary and confusing and would he still like you if you were gay? But you didn’t do it because it was too personal and too revealing. Once, you managed to ask him if you were too much, too difficult, too…everything. You wanted him to wrap you in his arms and tell you he loved you and that you aren’t too much.

To his credit, he tried to comfort you. It’s just hard to hide fear from someone who can feel it.

 

* * *

 

It’s not until Peter is taking a shower that you realize what you’ve really gotten yourself into. You sit heavily on your unmade bed and gaze around the room, taking in the balled dirty socks on the floor, the homework piled on the desk, the half a dozen dirty coffee mugs scattered around. It looks like a regular teenager’s room because that’s what you are. A teenager.

And your sentinel is a grown man.

The panic rising in you tastes bitter as you swallow it down, biting your lip so hard you almost draw blood. You can’t have a panic attack now, not when Peter is about to come out, although he can probably smell you through the room, unless the room smells so bad it covers your anxiety. Does the room smell? Should you clean it? You probably have just enough time to—

”Stiles?”

You jerk your head up just in time to see small droplets of water running down Peter’s chest. His skin is pink from the shower and wow, he’s really hot, wearing nothing but a towel. You can feel your cheeks growing bright red and you drop your eyes to your lap.

”Stiles?” Peter asks again, his voice rough with worry and disuse.

”Um…I’m sorry,” you blurt out, picking at a cuticle.

”For what?”

You make a face but don’t look at him. ”I’m probably not what you expected. I mean, I’m like this and you’re all…” you trail away and make a vague motion with your hand, startling when Peter catches it.

”I’m all what?” He asks quietly, kneeling in front of you. ”Old? Broken?”

”You’re not broken!” You snap back and meet his eyes, furious he’d even suggest it.

He barely raises a brow and, for a moment, you see a glimpse of a young, cocky sentinel wolf. The image dissolves when he raises your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles.

”Let me tell you what you are, Stiles,” he murmurs. ”You are extraordinary. Smart. Tenacious. Brave.” He accents every word with another kiss and with every kiss your cheeks grow hotter and your skin tingles, making you want to squirm away and crawl closer at the same time.

”Come to bed with me,” Peter whispers.

He’s the wolf but the look in his eyes makes you feel like the powerful one.

 

* * *

 

When you realized the Hale fire happened the night you were born, it felt like a revelation. You didn’t bother feeling bad either about using your dad’s passwords to dig into the old files or about impersonating as him to get your hands into the National Sentinel/Guide Association collection of werewolf lore.

It felt almost too mind-boggling to be true but the more you found out the more certain you were that when the power in the Preserve had latched on the last remaining Hale, it had also surged out, searching for something else to latch on. A matching pair.

A guide.

A mate.

_”When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,”_ you whispered under your breath.

Then you started laughing and laughed yourself straight into a panic attack.

 

* * *

 

”What if I’m not enough for you?” You ask later when it’s dark and the sweat has cooled on your skin.

Peter’s eyes are aflame but it doesn’t burn either of you.

”Sweetheart, you have always been enough for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Darling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chronicallyfragile), this was for you. You asked for all their POVs and I wrote them.
> 
> Also: Timelines? Let's call channel the truu TW spirit and hand-wave at the timelines.


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